“Healer!” Vara called without looking back. She plucked the bow and arrow off the ground and fired blindly over the ramparts.
“You called, Shelas’akur?” Vaste’s droll voice came up behind her. “Ow, this one looks like it hurts. Eyeball, eh? Wouldn’t want him to end up as Alaric the Second.” A scream came from behind her but she didn’t bother to look, just plucked another arrow and fired. “Well, hold still, damn you,” Vaste said. “This arrow isn’t going to pull itself out, and I can’t exactly heal you with it still in your eye, can I? Oh, dammit!” There was a sound of a hard hit behind her and she jumped, looking back, forcing her back against the crenellation of stone. Vaste smiled weakly over the fallen ranger, who was unconscious with a blatantly broken jaw. “Sorry. I had to knock him out. I’ll fix it now.”
“Try not to enjoy yourself too much harming our allies,” Vara said, snagging the ranger’s quiver from his back and pulling it free, then blind-firing another arrow over the battlements.
“I can’t imagine you’re doing much good shooting like that,” Vaste said, his hands beginning to glow.
“I can’t imagine I’m not hitting something,” she replied, releasing another arrow, “seeing as the dark elves are filling the ground before us all the way to the horizon.”
“More of a random act of hoping to hit something?” Vaste asked, his healing spell complete, the ranger’s eye now open, unfocused, and returned to normal. “Sounds like a metaphor for my love life.”
“I would have to miss considerably more to make that an accurate metaphor.”
“So cruel,” Vaste said. He glanced to the left and right. “Need any more healing done here? Other than your bitterness-encrusted heart?”
“I would laugh,” Vara said tightly, firing again, “but I seem to be in the midst of a crisis that has my attention. Be assured, though, I am remembering this moment for later, and I will certainly give it due amusement at that time. By which I mean I’ll be sitting around later whilst reading and will perhaps spare a moment to frown at your ridiculousness.”
“So long as we all live to see that moment, I’m fine with that,” Vaste said, still on his knees. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to crawl down the ramparts a ways,” he pointed toward the gates to the left, “and assist that poor bastard who has an arrow sticking out of his buttock.” The troll sighed. “One would think that armor would protect against that sort of thing. And who do you think will have to pull it out? Why couldn’t it have happened to a short, swarthy human woman? I like those.”
Vara rolled her eyes. “I have things to be getting on with, troll. Be about your business.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vaste said, beginning to crawl left, “I didn’t realize it was my presence keeping you from looking at where you were firing, I thought it was the ten thousand arrows that were filling the air like the worst cloud of mosquitos ever visited upon a swamp.”
She shook her head as he left. This is ridiculous, this press of the attack. She stuck her head out of the rampart for one second only, and saw that the battering ram was down again, wreathed in flames, and she spared only a little smile. Not today, Sovereign. Not today.
“They come again,” the voice was shot through with fatigue, but the figure appeared in a cloud of smoke, wafting off him in waves. “I see they’ve already fallen,” Alaric said, peering over the rampart as arrows flew through his exposed face and upper body. “Let us make this moderately more difficult on them.” Vara leaned her eyes over and felt an arrow clink! off her helm, causing her to blanch. She looked down upon the battering ram as Alaric’s force blast hit it and sent it rolling as though it had been kicked by a titan; it hit the ground and bounced five feet into the air and off the trodden road, bowling over a knot of dark elven soldiers, landing on them while still on fire. Their agonized screams blended into the chorus already filling the air. He fired another burst and the ram bounced again into the air from the force of his spell, this time even higher, almost ten feet, before it came down into another thicket of men.
Vara eyed the chaos that the paladin’s spell had caused; that injured over a hundred men and killed quite a few of them. “Satisfied yet?” she asked.
“No,” Alaric’s voice was gruff, uncaring. “Wizards! Druids!” he called, as though his words were amplified beyond a shout. “SEND THEM RUNNING!”
She watched as the flames rose around the walls, a burning, roiling firestorm ten feet high of interconnected fire spells that ate into the dark elven army surrounding them like little she had seen. It was not terribly thick—not like Mother’s—but it burned with a fury, lancing into the thickest concentrations of soldiers and raising the volume of screaming that filled the air by a considerable amount. Some began to flee, throwing the knot of soldiers around them into disarray and chaos, and Vara watched as a soldier fell and was trampled while attempting to escape. She ducked back behind the teeth of the wall and put her back against it. “Not bad, Alaric.”
“I told you,” the Ghost said, “they will not breach our walls.”
“Thanks to you,” she said.
“Courtesy of our wizards and druids,” he replied. “I have little to do with it save for sending their battering ram off course in a fit of pique. It will take them a few attempts to get it back to the road and in position again. That will cost them a few men.”
Vara gave him a nod. “A few men indee—” she tore her eyes from him at a blur of motion that came out of the tower to her right, a leather-clad figure who ran surefootedly, bent double, keeping her white hair low as she crossed the top of the rampart to reach them. Vara blinked in surprise as she registered recognition. “YOU!”
“Me,” the woman said, coming to a rest and kneeling next to where Alaric stood. “And you wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get here.” Her white hair was caked with dirt as was the rest of her outfit, leather armor and all.
“Aisling,” Alaric said mildly, peering down at the ranger. “You have returned to us. I would ask how, but I suspect ‘Why?’ is the more important question.”
“There’s a waste tunnel that leads to the river over there,” she waved in the distance toward the river Perda’s split, which rolled by outside the walls almost a mile away. “It’s a tight squeeze over a long distance, but I managed. Nyad, too—she teleported us in behind the army through the portal over there —” she waved out the direction of the gate, “but she’s a little slower than I am after that trek.” She looked up at Alaric in seriousness. “Cyrus sent me to plead for your help. They’ve evacuated the whole of Luukessia.”
Alaric blinked at her, but said nothing. “Excuse me,” Vara said. “Did you say—”
“The whole land of Luukessia has fallen, yes,” Aisling said. “They’ve taken it, from one side to the other, killing …” There was a moment’s pause as the dark elf seemed to waver then compose herself. “We’ve managed to get the last of the survivors onto the bridge, and Cyrus and the others are staging a slow withdrawal and bridge defense, but …” she shook her head, “they need help. They need an army before the scourge breaks loose of the Endless Bridge … or we’ll be facing the same fight here that cost us Luukessia.”
Alaric stood silent, and Vara looked to him for guidance. He did not react openly, but she could see even in the slight twitch of his mouth that something roiled beneath the surface. “Alaric?” she asked. “The dark elves—”
“The lesser threat, now, I think,” Alaric said quietly. “How long until this scourge make landfall?”
“A day,” Aisling said. “Perhaps two. They’re strong, Alaric, too strong for us to hold back the tide of them forever.”
Alaric nodded. “Very well.” He looked out across the panorama of the army surrounding the curtain wall. The volume of arrows still flying through the air was considerably decreased. “I need you to find Ryin Ayend and bring him to me. He will be just down the wall in that direction, I think,” and the Ghost pointed to his right. “Tell him to hurry.”
Aisli
ng nodded and was off at a run, bent over and moving at incredible speed and with enough grace that Vara felt a surge of jealousy as she had a flash where she saw Cyrus pressed against the dark elf in her mind, naked— “Alaric,” she said, throwing cold water upon that thought, “what do you intend?”
“It would appear Cyrus Davidon requires assistance,” Alaric said calmly, and he crouched down next to her. “I will go to him myself to render it.”
She frowned at him as though he were insane. “Alaric, one man will not be able to turn back the tide of these things that are coming, not if Cyrus’s reports or that diseased harpy,” she waved at Aisling’s retreating—and firm, she noted irritably—backside, “are to be believed. These things swept our army and the armies of three nations before them. What makes you think that they’ll do any different to you?”
Alaric stared at her through his helm, calmly impassive, but only for a moment before he smiled. “Have faith, Vara. I will take care of this. It is upon you to hold our home safe until my return.” His smile flickered. “Take care of yourself—and the others.”
She lay her head back against the wall behind her and caught a sudden waft of death far below. “How long will you be gone?”
He hesitated, an unusual thing for him to do. “As long as need be and not a moment more,” he answered finally. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and Ryin appeared, led by Aisling. She gave the dark elven woman a sneer, but it was halfhearted and she received only a coldly satisfied gaze in return. Alaric gave Ryin a nod. “Ladies,” Alaric said, “take care while I am away.” With that, the winds carried up around them, sweeping like a tornado around the ramparts, stirring Vara’s hair and rushing through the cracks in her armor to touch her skin while roaring in her ears. There was the taste of bitterness in her mouth as the wind settled, and Alaric was gone.
Chapter 107
Cyrus
The slog was hard, the salt air on his tongue along with the sweat that fell in drops with his exertion. The breeze kept him cool under the sun, but with every swing of Praelior he let another exhalation out, another muted curse at the things that came at him, black eyes, foul breath, no souls, and he took his fury out upon them. I’ve faced them for months, relentlessly, with all I had. This is the first time I can recall feeling so angry at them. He chanced a look back behind him; there was the faintest outline of land, far, far in the distance, barely visible even in the morning light. Hard to believe, that.
“You know,” Terian said conversationally, to his right, “I honestly thought that at some point, after as many of these things as we’ve killed, that they would eventually run out of them. But no, I guess thousands of years of dead kind of pile up, huh?”
“Less talking,” Longwell said, swinging his spear wide and sweeping five of the scourge over the edge of the bridge; he was to Cyrus’s far right, past Terian. Odellan and Scuddar were to his immediate left. I anchor the line in the middle. Another three came at him, all teeth. Where they aim their onslaught hardest. “More killing.”
There were black stains running along the stone they stood upon, the fresh evidence of the chaos they’d unleashed. It ran along the slight grade toward Arkaria, filling the carved lines in the bridge, the infinitesimally small gaps that didn’t seem like gaps at all to Cyrus, more like lines in the stone. Perfectly joined. No sign of mortar. The ancients must have been impressive indeed to have built this.
“Augh!” There was a cry to Cyrus’s left, and he saw Odellan fall, his arm in the mouth of one of the creatures. Cyrus slashed forward, tightening his distance to the elf. He felt Terian move a little closer to the center of the bridge to compensate.
“It’s all right,” Curatio called from behind them. “I’ve got him.” There was a moment that passed, as Cyrus cut the head from the scourge that had Odellan’s wrist, and he watched it fall away. “As much as they keep pushing you back,” the healer called, “be thankful that they don’t do much damage.”
“At this point I’m just thankful that we have ground left to give,” Odellan said, looking back behind them before unleashing a savage flurry on the next scourge to come forward at him in a lunge. “Thank you,” he said to Cyrus.
“Not a problem,” Cyrus replied, moving back to the center. He could sense Terian ease back to his lane of the bridge, as though they were moving in perfect synch. “Just like old times, huh?”
“I’m afraid that this is playing out much more like my defense of the Northbridge than your defense of the Grand Span,” Odellan said tensely as he brought his sword around and parried one of the scourge, letting it carry past him and into the waiting blades of the second line. Martaina and two warriors killed it quickly, before it had a chance to halt its forward momentum from the jump or turn on any of them.
“Aye,” Cyrus said. “And that’s not the best of signs for any of us, considering how it all turned out on the balance.”
“At least they can’t flank us,” Terian said. “Unless somehow they can crawl under the surface of the bridge.” His voice turned pensive. “Please tell me they can’t do that.”
“Let’s hope not,” Cyrus said, running Praelior across the face of a scourge and then taking the left shoulder off another before stomping it in the face, caving in its skull and killing it. He shot a look at the dark knight. “I know you’re not doing this for me, but I appreciate you being here nonetheless.”
“You’re welcome,” Terian said simply. “And you’re right.” He brought the red sword down in a long arc that caught a leaping scourge across the nose as it jumped, its momentum arrested and thrown off to the side with the power of Terian’s stroke. “I’m not doing this for you.”
“Then what are you doing it for?” Cyrus asked as he was forced to take another step back to parry a particularly aggressive and coordinated swiping attack from three scourge.
“I have my reasons,” Terian muttered, almost too low to be heard.
The sun rose higher in the sky as the day wore on. They gave ground steadily, and with every step and every furtive look back, Cyrus’s unease grew. The tension in his belly became intense, roiling, meshing with the acid in his stomach that allowed him to ignore the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the battle had begun earlier in the day. The horsemen were well out of sight now, the only remaining forces were the Sanctuary army—the last line of defense before these things hit Arkaria. And we’re failing. Slowly, but just as sure as if it were quick.
The sun began to set as Cyrus’s muscles grew weary. He watched as his comrades grew slower, their arms wearying, but carrying on. Others came up, here and there, to spell them for a bit. Cyrus waved them off each time, the relief strong but not strong enough. Not as strong as me. Not as determined. They lose ground quicker. He tried to push forward and a scourge leapt forward and smashed into him. He held, swinging his blade at the beast, putting it through its heart, and he took another step forward but was driven back by a scampering rush of two of them, coming at him like dogs, their claws clicking on the stone as they tried to bowl him over. He ended them both with quick sword thrusts, dodging the teeth as they came at him but losing two feet in the process.
Two feet might as well be a mile, because it adds up to one when you lose it enough times. The sun had set, and he could no longer see the outline of Arkaria’s shore, but he saw lights upon it in the distance, campfires from the Luukessian refugees. Driven from their homes into ours, and they may still die here. “Flame!” Cyrus called, and spells swept forward across the bridge, creating a scouring line as he took a deep breath, in and out. He watched Odellan slump, taking the moment’s respite. Scuddar seemed to stand stiffly straight, while Longwell leaned on his lance. Terian stood next to Cyrus, though, hands on his sword, blade planted down, as though he were drawing strength directly from the stone of the bridge.
Night came, swirling with a thousand stars in the sky. Cyrus called for flame as often as he could, sucking down a skin full of water each time, making water when needed, taking a l
oaf of bread and eating as much as he could during the small breaks they were afforded, never more than five minutes or so at a time so as to give the small number of druids and wizards that remained a chance to refresh themselves.
It went on, the smell of death and fire, of roasted, rotted flesh all combined into one. The screams of the scourge dying rolled on, too, along with the lapping of the water against the pillars of the bridge in quieter moments and the crackle when the flame spells came down, roaring and raging against the enemy that came, unstoppably, before them.
“This may be the longest night of my life,” Cyrus muttered to himself as the fire roared to life again. He saw black eyes watching him through the inferno, waiting, pacing on the other side.
“Worse than Termina?” Terian asked, winded, to his right. “You know, I wasn’t there for that, and I have to say … I am not sorry I missed it.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Cyrus said. “The worst parts were when an Unter’adon nearly ripped my head off with a ball and chain—”
“He brought his wife to the fight?” Odellan asked quietly. Heads swiveled, and the elf shrugged. “I can joke, too. It just happens infrequently.”
“Let me guess,” Terian said. “The other bad part was when a dark knight nearly ripped you in half with a sword.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said as the wall of flame began to fade. “I had leapt into the midst of the army of dark elves because they had healers. They kept saving our enemies—I’d chop one down and he’d spring back up behind me a moment later. I took one out, but there was another. I ripped into the middle of their line, threw myself forward, killed him, but I got stabbed a few times in the process.” He raised Praelior and took the blade to the first scourge to charge off the line, severing the head and ripping the jaw off the next, causing it to make a guttural scream. “It was then that I was attacked by the dark knight.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 85